


Telephone

by House of Halation (glasshibou)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Other, goofy popularity contest games, just something a little short and sweet, the stakes are not exactly high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/House%20of%20Halation
Summary: For a tumblr anon, who said:"MC is chatting with Solomon on the phone while making dinner. As a favour he wants MC to attend a fancy occult gathering with him to impress some demon. At the same time, Mammon wanders into the kitchen and hears MC sputtering and blushing about a date (Solomon purposely worded it to sound as suggestive as possible). Cue shenanigans as he scrambles to figure out who it is and how to disrupt the date."
Relationships: Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 100





	Telephone

The warm, welcoming scent of your spiced stew wafts up as you stir it, trying to keep the bottom of the pot from burning. Cooking for the House of Lamentation is always an incredibly hands-on activity—whether that’s because of the quantity of food required or because you always have to keep someone from pilfering it midway through. Which one it is is inconsequential because it all has the same result: total absorption of your entire attention span. 

Because it requires every last ounce of concentration you frown a little bit when you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket. Solomon’s name on your screen is a surprise, and it’s curiosity more than anything else that gets you to answer. 

“Hey,” you say, skipping the preamble. There’s a certain understanding between you and the only other human in the Devildom that means you both can forego many of the niceties normally required. You’re not sure if the sorcerer is a friend, exactly, but he’s not an enemy and for the moment, at least, you can trust him. 

“I’m on the hunt for another pact,” Solomon begins. You sigh and cut him off before he can get too far. 

“There’s nothing I can do for you with Lucifer. Still.” It’s no secret that Solomon considers Lucifer something of a crown jewel, second only to the unreachable Diavolo. Especially since he already has a pact with Barbatos, which is a story you’d really like to hear some day. 

“I wasn’t even thinking of Lucifer,” Solomon says, and he only sounds a little disingenuous. 

“Actually, it’s Fenriz. They’ve expressed particular interest in the human exchange students here in the Devildom, and I believe that if I were to procure both of those rare gems, I would be able to solidify the agreement. That is where you come in.” Solomon has a strange habit of speaking about himself as if he isn’t also one of the exchange students, but you’ve always chalked that up to how familiar with the realm he already is… And the fact that you suspect he’s much, much older than he often lets on. 

You roll your eyes, but the motion goes unseen by Mammon, who has just come to inquire as to when dinner might be ready. Strictly because he’s hungry; the fact that you’re alone in the kitchen has nothing to do with it. Really. Normally he’d have no qualms in interrupting your conversation, but he knows for a fact that you’re not speaking with any of his brothers. Which leaves him with the question of who, then, is on the other end of the line. Curiosity wins out over impulse for once, and he hangs back in the kitchen doorway. 

Solomon explains that it’s an occult meeting, populated mostly by witches and other sorcerers—most of which, while at least partly human, still have some sort of demon lineage—and so a full human is an extremely rare thing. You’d prefer not to feel like a prize show dog, but you suppose it is what it is. But because you are a relative stranger to the magical world, Solomon insists you’ll have to be blindfolded while he guides you to the meeting area.

“Sounds kinky,” you deadpan, poking at the stew with the spoon in your hand. You listen for a moment longer to the voice on the other end of the line, and Mammon glowers in the background, wishing he could just hear the voice you’re speaking to. Because he does  _ not _ like the turn your conversation has taken. It’s almost flirty, and if he didn’t know that Asmodeus was currently hanging around Beelzebub, he’d swear that’s who is on the other end. 

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “I kind of feel like I’m being used. And I don’t like keeping secrets.” Nothing has ever gone well in the House of Lamentation as a result of keeping secrets, and you can’t bring yourself to want to add to that. Even if it’s something as simple as keeping your arrangement with Solomon a secret so that none of the brothers would interfere with his plans. Solomon assures you that it’s no big deal, really, and that it’s not even one full night—just a few hours, really, and all you have to do is show up and stand around. No magic, Solomon promises… But you’re not really sure you trust his promises. After all, every demon in the House of Lamentation reminds you as frequently as possible that Solomon is not to be trusted. Oddly enough, Leviathan is the only one who views the sorcerer as a friend. 

You chew on your bottom lip in consideration. Maybe it would be nice, if the sorcerer really is as shifty as everyone keeps claiming, to be owed a favor. 

“It’s a date, then,” you say, and Mammon can hear the smile in your voice even if he can’t see your face. “Should I dress all sexy, or is that going too far?”

“Oh, definitely,” Solomon says, and you genuinely cannot tell if he’s being serious or not. Embarrassed heat flushes your face and you stammer a response into your phone, hearing your own jittery voice. He must have you on speakerphone, then; the knowledge ambarrasses you even more. 

Mammon thinks that he might just have an aneurysm brought on by the stress of just those words. You’re  _ his human _ , after all; you can’t just go around dating any plebeian demon—and forget about  _ dressing up _ for them! It’s almost too much for him to bear. 

Of course, he knows that you are your own person and can do as you wish. And he’d never openly say that he wants you to want to spend more time with him. Part of him even knows that if he wants to go on a date with you, he might just need to ask you himself. A larger part finds it ridiculous that you haven’t asked him yourself, yet. He’s the Great Mammon! Of course you’d want to go on a date with him (Right?)

He listens to you solidify your plans over the phone, but you don’t release enough clues to figure out where or when or—most importantly—with whom you are going. There’s really only one course of action that he can see before him: he has to get to the bottom of it all. 

Of course, it’s going to require some finesse; he knows that he’s going to have to be careful in trying to ferret out that information from you.

“Hey!” Mammon calls out as soon as you hang up, making you jump in surprise as you turn to face him. He’s not normally a very quiet demon, so you’re somewhat shocked that he’s managed to sneak up behind you. “What’cha up to?”

You don’t miss the way he glances at your phone or how he leans a little away from you like he’s on edge about something. 

“Dinner.” You indicate to the stew and the way the steam curls upwards from it. “Want to help me serve it?” The answer of course, is actually  _ not really _ because he wants to know just who you were on the phone with, who you promised to go on a date with. But he agrees pleasantly enough instead; he’s dealt with Lucifer enough to know how to at least try to butter someone up. 

He even helps you clean up after, which you think is both unexpected and sweet, but the whole time he seems oddly… tense. You feel watched closer than you ever have been before like he’s waiting for you to make a mistake or he’s about to drop some sort of bomb on you. It happens when you start to pull away to finish the last bit of homework you have, and you’re distracted enough with thoughts of your assignment that he has to reach out and touch your arm to get your attention. 

“Wanna hang out tonight?” His question is simple, but you’re certain that he really means to ask anything else. But you’re tired of tiptoeing around the meaning behind whatever it is he’s really saying. You like him. You  _ really _ do. But sometimes divining every single thing behind anything he says—no matter how blatantly obvious—is exhausting. 

“Yeah,” you say brightly, linking your arm through his. For the first time that you can remember that evening, his smile seems genuine.

And then he asks you to  _ hang out _ for the next four nights in a row; you can’t help but to notice that it’s always just the two of you hidden away in his room or shopping in semi-secluded areas or just about anything that ensures all of your attention is on him. For not knowing how to play pool three days ago, you think that you’ve gotten pretty good at it, actually. Every time you agree to go on the pseudo-dates he visibly tenses and then relaxes, and you can’t quite figure out what he’s so worried about. 

You wonder if it has anything to do with all of the phone calls he keeps sneaking off to make or the way he keeps asking his brothers for favors. One morning you swear you hear him begging someone to take him somewhere, which strikes you as particularly peculiar. Mammon simply doesn’t  _ ask _ to go anywhere, but you suppose that stranger things have happened. Maybe. Perhaps wherever he’s trying to get into requires an invitation, and you know that Mammon has worn out his welcome in more than one club or gambling den. 

“Ya sure you don’t have anywhere to be?” He asks like he’s just waiting for you to change your answer.

“Not tonight,” you say as you flip through his film collection, trying to find something that will interest you both. He talks a big game about being able to handle horror films, but you’ve never not seen him flinch at a jumpscare. 

“But tomorrow?”

You pause at his question and feel a little guilty. Solomon is taking you to the meeting tomorrow night, so there’s no way you’ll be able to have another movie marathon. While you don’t see the harm in telling anyone where you’re going, you also promised Solomon that you wouldn’t. If nothing else, you’re a human of your word.

“I’m… busy tomorrow. I mean, it’s just this thing, but when it’s done, maybe we can—”

“Nevermind,” Mammon interrupts with a frown. “It’s not like I wanted to do anything anyway.” Except that it’s obvious he  _ did _ want something and you’ve clearly said the wrong thing by the way his face falls. The thought that maybe he’s overheard your half of the conversation with Solomon barely registers; you can hardly remember exactly what you said, anyway. 

“Okay, well…” You gesture towards the film you’ve pulled up and he shrugs at it without ever even looking at it. But whatever gloomy mood has settled around him doesn’t prevent him from taking his place next to you. 

* * *

The entire next evening is chaos. You have to keep yourself from being spotted as you sneak around the House of Lamentation while you wait for Solomon. At the same time, you’re also determined to keep Mammon in your sights. He knows  _ something, _ you’re sure, by the way he’s jumpy and always looking over his shoulder. If it wouldn’t make it worse, you’d ask him what the matter is. 

But his aggravation and your nerves class in a frisson of frenetic energy that spills out onto everyone else. There’s a clash over the last roll at dinner and then a spat over the speed of the internet connection, which spills further into an argument over who scribbled what in someone else’s textbook. 

And then the  _ real _ chaos erupts when a witch shows up. She knocks politely enough on the front door, but Lucifer reacts as if she’s just tried to beat it down with a battering ram. Feathers fly as he snarls at each of the likely suspects; Asmodeus begs ignorance and Satan scoffs at the idea that he’d ever deign to associate so freely with a witch. It’s Mammon who visibly flinches when Lucifer’s gaze falls onto him, which says more than enough to everybody within earshot.

“I’ve got a place to be,” Mammon grumbles as he readjusts his jacket. You don’t like it when the brothers get rough with each other, and you like it least of all when it seems so vicious—but you also remember how angry Lucifer got when he thought Luke was after their grimoire. And Luke was a relatively powerless angel. 

Mammon meets your eyes and is the first to look away, tearing his gaze from yours as if Lucifer isn’t even there and still incredibly pissed off. His confidence as he saunters out of the house is breathtaking, and both you and Lucifer stare in something akin to awe (you) and apoplectic rage (Lucifer) as he joins the witch out on the front lawn. 

_ What the hell was that? _

You stand and stare at the place where Mammon was long enough that your phone buzzes in your hand, a reminder from Solomon that you’re supposed to be somewhere. 

* * *

After the pandemonium from the House of Lamentation, the occult gathering seems oddly tame. Sure, there’s the calling of nighttime birds and the huge bonfire and the chattering of dozens of people all at once. And there are more than a few nightmarish creatures you know could only belong in the Devildom skulking around, but they all seem… relatively tame. None of them look at you like you’d make a delicious after-dinner snack. 

Solomon pats you on the back and tells you to not look like you’ve just been sentenced to death. 

“You owe me,” you remind the sorcerer. An exchange student in the Devildom you may be, but that doesn’t mean that you want to engage with the… darker aspects of the culture. Adding to that is the inherited anxiety you feel around so many witches. While you haven’t had any dealings with them yourself, you’ve heard enough from the demons you’ve been living with. Mammon likes them the least, and you’ve seen how they demand he appear at their own gatherings and fetes, with little to no regard to what he has going on. 

So it’s absolutely incomprehensible to see him standing between two magic circles, arm in arm with the witch he’d left the House of Lamentation with. Your jaw drops because you’d assumed, at the time, that he’d been conscripted into some witchy nonsense. Not that he’d be at the same place you were going to be at. (When Solomon invited you, you’d assumed it was some sort of sabbat; now, however, it just seems a lot like one of the frat field parties you never bothered to go to. It gets bonus points for having actual food and places to sit, though.)

You reach out and grab Solomon’s arm, motioning nervelessly towards Mammon when the sorcerer looks down at you. 

“Oh,” Solomon hums. “Surprised he’s here, are you? He  _ did _ keep asking me if I knew anything about your whereabouts for the past few evenings. Thank you for keeping this a secret, by the way; I’m not quite sure why, but there are some parties in the Devildom who seem bent on keeping me from any more pacts.” Solomon looks ridiculously like a kicked dog, enough that you know it’s all an act and he knows  _ exactly _ why the demons might be wary of him. You  _ tsk _ at him and shake your head.

“Of course I didn’t say anything. But I can’t figure out why he’d be  _ here. _ ”

“It’s invite only; I assume he got one of his witch friends to let him tag along. I do wonder why, though.” 

You squeeze the sorcerer’s arm in warning, already tired of his little games. It’s in that moment you decide that if the witch made Mammon promise anything to bring him along, you’d deal with her yourself. (Nevermind that you’re not sure how you’d do it; you just know that you  _ will. _ )

“That doesn’t explain  _ why _ , though,” you mutter as you watch the ashen haired demon look around. He’s looking for  _ you _ , you realize with a guilty twist to your stomach. Well. Shit. But Solomon only gives you one of his little half-smiles, the one that’s quickly becoming very aggravating to you; you don’t think it’s that much of a jump in logic to conclude that the sorcerer engineered this whole thing. 

“Fenriz wanted more demons here, didn’t they?” A quick scan of the attendees tells you that it’s mostly witches. Very few demons have deigned to arrive, if they were invited. And now that you think of it, you remember that Fenriz does attend the academy… But you can’t remember if they’re exactly popular. 

Solomon only shrugs at you and you drop your hands back down to your side, deeply irritated by his machinations.

“Seriously? You couldn’t have just  _ asked _ him to show up?”

“Where you go, he goes,” Solomon says, looking far too pleased with himself and the trick he seems to think he pulled. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you snap at him, loud enough to draw the attention of the people around you—and Mammon. His expression brightens when he notices you and then immediately darkens when he sees who you’re standing next to. He’s quick to ditch his witch companion, who only looks a little upset. 

“Humans,” Mammon grumbles as he comes to stand in front of you, eyeing Solomon more sullenly than he usually does. “Shoulda’ figured that’s who you were goin’ on a date with. Guess you guys stick together, huh?”

“...Date?” You blink at him as you try to piece together just how he got that impression. “This isn’t a date. This is…” But you let your sentence trail off, not exactly sure how to finish your sentence. Just what is it, exactly? A trap, to be certain—but you’re not so sure if it was just for Fenriz anymore. 

“Anyway, Solomon, why don’t you go and get Fenriz so we can wrap this up and I can go back home?” Mammon doesn’t seem to notice the irritation in your voice or how much you don’t really want to be there at all, based on the pout he’s currently sporting. You tap Solomon on the back to spur him into movement and point to Fenriz, who you only recognize because they’re been pointed out to you. Mercifully, the sorcerer moves, leaving you alone with Mammon. 

“It  _ really _ isn’t a date,” you insist. “Solomon asked me to come so he could impress Fenriz, except now I think it was also a means to lure you here, too. He wants a pact with Fenriz.” You shrug to indicate that you don’t know why either. 

“That weakling? What’s Fenriz got that Solomon wants?” Your explanation seems to be acceptable enough to Mammon, who regards you with a little less suspicion than he had just a few moments ago. 

“No idea,” you tell him with a shrug. “Anyway, we’re both here now, and it seems pretty boring.” You stick your hands in your pockets and survey your surroundings as if you aren’t at that very moment planning how to cause the most chaos. Some sort of explosive—like a firecracker, maybe—would be fun to toss into the fire. 

“Yeah,” Mammon agrees as if deep in thought. “We should probably do somethin’ about that, considering we’re the guests of honor and all.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, over towards where the witches’ familiars rest. Most of them are tied up or magically contained in some way. Most of  _ those _ look like they’d bolt at the first opportunity. Your face splits into a wide smile.

“I think that sounds like a plan.”


End file.
